


The Haunted Tower (or How Tony Stark makes sure Everyone's Okay)

by justanotherStonyfan



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:16:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve has nightmares. He's not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Haunted Tower (or How Tony Stark makes sure Everyone's Okay)

Steve refers to things in his head in a different way than he does out loud. 

Super-expensive-pizza and pizza-pizza, for example, so he knows what to order from where. If Tony wants high-end pizza, it's easier to remind himself he's ordering from super-expensive-pizza because he recognizes the logo than it is to ask Tony what the place is called again. Likewise if he's ordering for himself. Pizza-pizza will suffice in that case. 

And there's stuff like suit-suits and fight-suits, so he knows whether or not to find a tie if someone says it's time to suit up. 

There are people that he identifies by quirks – like Tapper, the SHIELD agent who likes to tap his pen on the table, or Pips, the one who has a gold pip at the top of each lapel on her SHIELD issue jacket. Places he identifies by logo or color – the red bank, the blue bank, the-place-with-the-big-screens.

It's not like he doesn't know the difference between the places, not like he couldn't remember the names and the places if someone asked, but he finds himself gravitating towards colors and nicknames if he's busy. It's easier to just go with it than to stop what he's doing to use his whole brain to remember 'Pizza Hut.'

Like the night he wakes early from a nightmare of the kind he thinks he'll never be rid of, and what follows changes his entire understanding of everyone. From then on, Stark Tower at Night is officially the Haunted Tower.

But Steve isn't the one who calls it that.

~

He couldn't sleep. Or, more accurately, he couldn't stay asleep. Falling asleep was easy – Steve was a soldier, he'd spent a good few years sleeping whenever and wherever he could. _Sleep when you can, because you don't know when you'll get another chance._ But sleeping heavily or lightly depending on the situation (sleeping through bad weather or light but never through speaking or footsteps) gave him no advantage when shadows came to get him in the night.

He could be dreaming about anything. Old cobbled streets, or the ice-cream parlor Natasha said she liked, or the helicarrier, or the clouds and the sea and a million other things. And it didn't matter.

Eventually, it all turned the same way. The clock that he couldn't wind fast enough, the house that he couldn't find his way out of, the flooded building he'd die in because he didn't have the strength to swim. And then the ticking clock would stop and the engines would fail and he'd be crashing into the ice. The house would become small and dark and full of burning, screaming faces. The flood would rise and he'd be drawn under and they'd be there waiting for him, half dead and laughing, eyeless figures made of black smoke and twisting to avoid his blows even as they struck him in return to beat him down. Even if he could breathe, he'd drown in them.

“No!” he managed, and it would have been a cry if he'd had the breath to make it any louder than the strangled whisper that passed his lips.

He was gasping, clutching at his chest, twisting to get away from the shadow figures...but they weren't there. They were gone. He was...safe.

So he got up. He asked J.A.R.V.I.S for the lights and sat up, pushed the covers back, found a robe he could don over his pajamas and went out of his room.

The floors, the individual places, weren't finished yet. But, for now, they each had a suite along the same, long corridor, they each shared a kitchen and a living room. It was like a dormitory, and Steve liked the comradeship that seemed to stem from it, the camaraderie it brought along. But even thoughts of wrestling for the remote or racing for the coffee machine weren't enough to make him smile, not now.

But then it never was on nights like this. In fact, on nights like this, he'd often go walking, out onto streets he felt like he should know, until the fatigue or the urge to eat got the better of him, and then he'd go back – go _home_ – and forget about it until it happened again. But tonight the streets were bright and brash because the rain came down so that the light from the buildings came back twofold off the asphalt and stone, so that people hurried under umbrellas and dashed around each other to get home. 

Sometimes Steve liked rain but he didn't want to be out in it tonight. And he thought about the gym, but he didn't want that either. He'd already woken up out of breath from not being able to fight, muscles aching from the memory of it, from being tense in his sleep from fighting an enemy in his mind and failing miserably. He didn't want to fight any more. 

Actually, what he really wanted was to go back to bed, but the thought of that room in the dark, of lying down and being vulnerable, of closing his eyes to the rest of the world and therefore seeing nothing of any danger should it approach, was something he couldn't reconcile his body and mind with. His eyes were tired but his shoulders were tense. His brain was slow but his fists were clenched. 

So he picked up his sketchbook and went to the communal living room instead, hoping to turn on the television and find something mindless he could stare at with the sound down, a glass of milk in one hand, sketchbook in the other, and a cookie he knew he shouldn't really feel guilty about held between his front teeth.

He put the milk on a coaster on the table, then took a nibble of the cookie (because he knew to savor good things) before he set it down to balance on the rim of the glass of milk, and then he sat back against the back of the couch.

“J.A.R.V.I.S,” he said softly, “can you put the TV on mute and just show me pictures, please?”

“ _Certainly, Captain_ ,” J.A.R.V.I.S answered, and he ended up with some kind of horticultural program, which was nice enough.

Sketching flowers was just fine by him, and they even had the names right next to them on the screen, so he included those because, why not?

And he'd been there for a little less than a quarter of an hour when he suddenly became aware of a faint beeping noise, one that barely even registered on the edges of his super-serum enhanced hearing. And he frowned.

“J.A.R.V.I.S,” he said slowly, “am I...hearing things?”

“ _I couldn't say, Captain,_ ” J.A.R.V.I.S answered. “ _What is it you hear?_ ”

Steve shook his head slowly. “Beeping,” he said. “It's quiet.”

“ _That is the emergency system, Captain,_ ” J.A.R.V.I.S responded. “ _It registers any possible intruder alerts and was last accessed in the kitchen, which is where the corresponding alert will register until the system is accessed from a different location._ ”

Steve felt his eyes go wide as the hair on the back of his neck rose, goosebumps prickling his skin. “Intruders?” he whispered. 

“ _This particular aspect of the system responds to vocal stimulation,_ ” J.A.R.V.I.S said, not reassuring Steve in the slightest. “ _If a member of the Avengers team is in distress, the alarm registers the vocalisation and monitoring is activated._ ”

“J.A.R.V.I.S,” Steve said, sitting forward, closing the robe in case he had to run, “are you telling me there are intruders in the tower and the alarm hasn't activated?”

“ _No, Captain,_ ” J.A.R.V.I.S answered, and Steve might have been so relieved he felt nauseated if he hadn't been so confused. “ _The system recognises all sounds of distress and evaluates the alert. The current alert does not warrant an activation of the intruder alarm._ ”

Steve shook his head, staring at the ceiling. “Then why is the alert sounding?” he asked and, not a moment later, a second tone, slightly lower but at the same speed – although jarringly out of synch – joined the first.

“ _Previously one, and currently two, of the Avengers team are in distress,_ ” J.A.R.V.I.S answered simply, and Steve stood up anyway. 

“What kind of distress?” he said, body tensing up to let him run. “How do I help?”

In the few seconds silence that followed, and it was a long enough pause that it sounded like J.A.R.V.I.S was thinking, Steve's unease didn't let up at all. If anything, it got worse, and he was just about to ask again, or just go ahead and start kicking doors down, when J.A.R.V.I.S spoke. “ _It would be best, Captain, if you would proceed to the kitchen to examine the user interface. The system will become clearer with this demonstration._ ”

Steve shook his head in irritation, but did as he was asked, running for the kitchen with his sketchbook still in hand to find the small panel on the wall, usually reserved for lights-on and lock-the-doors commands,was displaying something he' d never noticed before. 

At the top of the panel, there was a row of lights. Two of them, the third and fourth ones along, were red pinpoints, blinking along with the beeping, which was louder now. The first and second ones were a steady amber and the fifth and sixth were evidently off. “What is this?” Steve muttered.

“ _The lights are a representation of each member of the Avengers team,_ ” J.A.R.V.I.S said. “ _Sir is represented by the first, yourself by the second, Dr Banner by the third, Agent Romanoff by the fourth, Agent Barton by the fifth and Thor by the sixth._ ”

“That doesn't help me,” Steve said, although it sort of did. If the blinking lights were signs of distress, then Bruce and Nat were in distress.

“ _Dr Banner and Agent Romanoff are experiencing nightmares,_ ” J.A.R.V.I.S said, and Steve could swear he sounded slightly more subdued. “ _They are best left alone._ ”

Steve reached out and ran his thumb over the flashing lights – first Bruce's, then Natasha's. “And there's nothing we can do?”

“ _Past alerts show that they will, in all likelihood, wake of their own accord._ ”

“And then?” Steve asked. “What happens to this?”

“ _The representative lights will turn amber._ ”

And Steve felt his eyebrows raise. Amber. And that made sense. His own light, the second in the row, was amber. And he'd woken from a nightmare. God, he hadn't realized he'd made noise at all, never mind enough to trigger an alarm. Of course, Tony's light was amber, too.

“ J.A.R.V.I.S, how long will the light stay amber for?”

“ _Until Sir resets the system,_ ” J.A.R.V.I.S answered. 

Steve left the kitchen to walk along the corridor, the beeping growing softer behind him, and it was soon joined by a third tone even as it began to fade. But that wasn't what held his attention any longer.

Like one of the horror movies Tony liked, the floor felt empty – cold, dark, huge and filled with shadows – and there was moaning. Even knowing who it was – Nat and Bruce and it had to be Clint unless it was Tony again – didn't make it any less eerie, any less unnerving. 

It was as though the walls were moaning at him, as though the place didn't want him there, like wind through old windows.

“ J.A.R.V.I.S?” he whispered.

“ _Captain?_ ” J.A.R.V.I.S answered softly, and Steve shut his eyes against the moaning, the wailing, the awful sound of people that didn't even sound like people. 

“Where's Tony?” he said, turning around again to go back to the kitchen. It had been a bad idea to leave the beeping and even though it got louder as he went back to it, it seemed like the moaning followed him, creeping up behind him in the darkness.

“ _Sir is in the workshop, three floors down. Shall I provide direction to the nearest elevator?_ ”

Steve nodded, feeling a little more at ease already as blue threadlights lined the floor and led off into the darkness. Hearing an accent like J.A.R.V.I.S' say a word like 'elevator' at least let him know this was real, that J.A.R.V.I.S spoke like an Englishman programmed by an American, and Steve followed the lights with one hand on the wall, the steady beeping in the kitchen cut off as the elevator doors closed behind him.

~

Tony frowned when J.A.R.V.I.S turned the music down, and he lifted his hands from the gauntlet.

“What gives, J?” he asked, and J.A.R.V.I.S responded smoothly as the music faded out.

“ _Captain Rogers is awake and wishes to speak with you,_ ” he said. “ _Should I grant him access to the workshop?_ ”

Tony frowned.“What time is it?”

“ _It is now three thirty-seven in the morning, Sir._ ”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure, whatever,” he said, standing up as the door opened. “Not like I was doing anything important anyway. Cap! What brings you to my little corner of the universe?”

But he found his smile faltering when he turned around.

Steve Rogers wasn't supposed to look the way he looked right at that second. Sleep-rumpled? Well, sure, he supposed. Everybody got sleep-rumpled and just because he'd half expected Steve to wake up still dressed in his suit with his hair clean and combed didn't mean his brain couldn't accept the red creases along Steve's cheek, or the way his hair looked slightly puffed up at the side, or the way his eyes weren't really fully open and were slightly bloodshot. Hell, even super-soldiers should be allowed a good sleep. Tony wondered for a second if Steve snored but that really wasn't the point.

The point was that Steve didn't just look sleep-rumpled, he looked kind of shaken, too. His skin was pale and his hands were white-knuckled, one grasping the front of his robe while the other held his sketchbook like a lifeline, shoulders hunched, head down.

“Cap, you okay?”

“Y-Yeah,” Steve said, evidently trying to sound nonchalant, and failing. “I'm just...yeah. I couldn't sleep.”

Tony narrowed his eyes a little but didn't say anything else. If Steve wanted to talk, he'd talk. “That makes two of us,” he said instead. “Coffee?”

Steve squinted at him in the light and then shook his head.“No,” he said. “No, thanks, I'm...Can I sit down?”

Tony nodded, holding out one hand in the direction of the couch. 

“Sure,” he said. “You sure you don't want coffee? I'm having coffee.”

“No,” Steve answered, lowering himself gingerly onto the couch. “I-I mean, yeah. I'm sure I don't want any coffee.”

“Right,” Tony said quietly, and he went to the machine to get a cup for himself.

He glanced back while he was there and, for a second or two, Steve looked around the workshop, taking in the sight of that various tools and half-finished-somethings that he'd get to at some point. But then he stared at his knees for a second or two. And then he clasped his hands in his lap and stared at those.

“Cap, you really don't look too good,” he said eventually, and he didn't miss the way Steve seemed to startle. “You sure you're all right?”

Steve pressed his lips together and sighed through his nose, staring at Tony for a long time before he actually answered. 

“I had nightmares,” he said.

Tony did his best to look surprised. “Oh,” he said. “I'm...sorry?”

“But you already knew that,” Steve continued, and he didn't sound angry, which was good, but he did sound kind of sad, and kind of confused and, wait, how did Steve know he'd know? “I woke up and I went to the living room but I could hear beeping.”

Tony thought about that for all of a split second, and then he ran his hand over his eyes. “Oh,” he said. 

“Nat and Bruce,” Steve said softly, “and ours were amber.”

Tony sighed and tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. “Well, y'know, it happens to the best of us, Cap,” he said. “Lets me know nothing's gonna sneak up on us.”

Steve nodded, unclasping his hands to rub one down the arm of the couch as he picked lint off the robe with the other.

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, it's a good system. But they sound...”

“Oh, hell, Steve, tell me you didn't go walking the haunted tower.”

Steve looked at him then, frowning. “The what?” he said, and Tony picked up his coffee.

“The Corridor of Doom,” he said, “the Wailing Walkway.”

Steve took another couple of seconds to figure it out, and then he nodded slowly in understanding. “Right,” he said. “Yeah, I...I guess I did." And then he frowned and looked away.

“There's a reason I come here when I wake up,” Tony said. “And it's 'cause I don't wanna be anywhere near that floor at night if I can't sleep through.”

Steve nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he whispered. 

Tony sighed and went to sit by Steve instead of sitting back at the table he'd been working at. Steve looked surprised for a second or two but it melted away soon enough.

“So we all have nightmares?” he said once Tony was settled, and Tony shrugged.

“All of us except Thor, his has never been triggered. But you, me and Nat, almost every night, Clint and Bruce almost as much. Hazard of the job, right?”

Steve chewed his lower lip. “Right,” he said. “I guess so.”

“So what was it this time?” Tony said, wondering if he should really ask the question that was on his mind. “I know you have different ones, so do I.”

And he wouldn't have admitted it but Steve looked shocked that Tony knew. “I...how did you...?” he whispered, and Tony shrugged.

“You say different things,” he answered, trying to sound as honest as he actually was. “Different names, different...uh, words.”

Steve clenched his jaw and, dammit, that wasn't what Tony had wanted.

“Like me, I've looked at the security footage of me.”

“ _Footage?_ ” Steve said, sounding barely controlled, and Tony held up his hands.

“Recorded for seventy two hours and then overwritten. It's just in case I need to go back, and nobody sees it but me. Hell, I hardly ever see it, J.A.R.V.I.S does most of the analysing. Right, J.A.R.V?”

_“Indeed, Sir.”_

“So, I've looked at mine. And sometimes I'm trying to stop someone and sometimes I'm in space and sometimes...They're all different. And yours are different. Nat's mainly in Russian so I tend to just let her be but, y'know...”

And Steve looks a lot sadder then, something that twists in Tony's chest in a way he hadn't expected.

“It was just shadowcreatures,” Steve said, in barely more than a whisper, and then he looked up. “I-I mean, they...they start out like people sometimes or they start out like shadows and then they turn into...weird...twisted people...creature things. And they come after me and I can't get away.”

Tony watched him for a second or two, held Steve's gaze, and then nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I drown a lot.”

Steve nodded as he looked away. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I can...I can relate to that. Or...people. Mistakes.”

Tony sat back against the back of the couch and nodded too as he swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “People you lost,” he said. “Yeah. All the time, I get those all the time.”

“Do you...” Steve began, and then he stopped, and Tony looked at him, waiting. Steve was chewing his lip again, clasping his hands in his lap again, and Tony didn't ask until he was sure Steve wasn't going to continue speaking.

“Do I...?” he said, and Steve laughed. It was a huff of breath, soft and low, and if he weren't smiling Tony might have thought Steve was going to cry.

“The worst ones are the ones I like,” he said. “There's this one I have about...Bucky...”

And damn, that looked difficult for him to say.

“Yeah?” Tony murmured, if only to let Steve know he was still there.

“He...fell,” Steve said. “I couldn't...I let him fall.”

Tony didn't say anything. He'd read the report and he would gladly have said so, have told Steve it couldn't have been his fault the way he was making it sound, but it could wait, if only because Steve evidently wanted to talk.

“And I have dreams where...” And there was that laugh again, as Steve's fingers curled into fists.

“It's okay,” Tony said softly, and Steve looked at him, stared at him before he looked away again.

“I catch him,” he breathed. “They're the worst. I dream I reach out, and the metal breaks, and I _catch_ him, his hand is _in mine_ and I've _got_ him! I've _saved_ him.” And Tony felt his throat constrict because he knew exactly how that kind of dream felt, exactly what was coming next. “And then I wake up,” Steve whispered, “and I was only dreaming.”

Tony reached out and settled one hand on Steve's shoulder just because it felt like the right thing to do.

“Yeah,” he said, finding his voice rough. “I do.”

Steve just nodded, staring down at his hands again – anything to avoid eye-contact, probably, and Tony knew how that felt, too.

“So, anyway, Cap,” he said, clearing his throat before he continued. “I'm in the middle of-”

“Right,” Steve said, pushing forwards. “I-I'm sorry, of course, I'll just-”

“Hey, where're you going?” Tony asked as Steve made to stand, and Steve looked back at him, confusion evident on his face.

“I'm...leaving?” he said. “You're busy-”

“I'm saying, I won't be good company,” Tony answered. “But you can stay as long as you don't mind. In fact, you ever need to get away from the Haunted House, you come down here, yeah? J.A.R.V.I.S'll let you in if I'm not here. Right, J.A.R.V.I.S?”

“ _Of course, Sir,_ ” J.A.R.V.I.S answered. “ _I can use the Captain's voice as a key.”_

“So all you gotta do is say hi,” Tony said, ignoring the wide-eyed look Steve was giving him. “Okay?”

And Steve nodded, still looking completely shell-shocked. “Okay,” he echoed. “Yeah, yes. Thank you.”

Tony smiled as off-handedly as he could manage. “Not a problem, Cap,” he said, and then he pointed to the workbench. “I'm gonna...”

“Sure,” Steve said, settling back into the couch, lifting his sketchbook to show Tony. “I'm good.”

~

In the morning, Tony put a blanket over Steve where he'd fallen asleep on the couch, and he went to the kitchen to see if there was any food that wouldn't need cooking. 

On his way in, he ran his hand over the display by the door that turned all five of the little amber lights off, resetting the system. He did it every morning. He barely even thought about it now.


End file.
